


knit, purl, cast on

by fakefish



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, First Kiss, Fluff, Knitting, M/M, Pining, crafts as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 14:15:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19477597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakefish/pseuds/fakefish
Summary: Aziraphale doesn’t know about it – Crowley never tells him and hides the supplies each time Aziraphale comes over. He isn’t really sure why he never tells him – maybe he’s worried Aziraphale will tease him. Maybe he’s worried Aziraphale will judge him. Maybe he’s worried that Aziraphale will look at the soft yarn and needles and realize how often Crowley thinks of him and run again.In short, Crowley knits for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale doesn’t know.





	knit, purl, cast on

After the Apocalypse, Crowley knows he should feel relieved. Calm. At ease.

But he can’t help how he wakes up at night sometimes, shaking with the memory of fire and burned books and the soul-crushing fear that Aziraphale was _gone,_ the thought that maybe the flames were hellfire, that Aziraphale didn’t exist anymore, that Crowley was crushingly, cripplingly, endlessly alone.

There’s no doubt now that he was wrong, of course. Aziraphale is as beautifully alive as ever, even more of a constant in Crowley’s life than before. He’s started staying at Crowley’s flat from time to time after dinner at the Ritz, and Crowley’s shared Aziraphale’s bed – chastely, of course, platonic and nothing more.

If occasionally their hands find each other’s in the middle of the night, when it’s too dark to see anything other than the reflection of moonlight in Aziraphale’s still-open eyes (he rarely actually sleeps), they don’t mention it in the morning.

They don’t mention a lot of things.

And when they aren’t staying together, Crowley wakes up and needs to do something with his hands, because sitting alone with his thoughts becomes a bit too much.

The plants don’t help – there’s only so long that he can inspect for spots and wilting before he blows through the hall. He’s not an artist, he doesn’t play music, stress balls aren’t _nearly_ enough, and driving alone in the Bentley while he’s spiraling just reminds him of—

Anyways.

He drives past a yarn store one day.

He’s pulling the Bentley up into what definitely isn’t a parking spot before he can process what he’s doing, and finds himself being escorted around by a sweet old lady who seems to want nothing more than to sell Crowley the whole shop. Which he doesn’t do, of course, but he lets her talk to him about cashmere and wool and needles until he’s afraid she’ll drop to the floor from fatigue.

God, he’s gotten soft. But he can’t deny how nice the cashmere yarn feels between his fingers, and how lovely that particular shade of blue looks. How nice it’d look with a cream coat and flushed skin and soft blonde curls.

He’s in front of the cash register before he knows it.

**

It’s frustrating at first. The woman had shown him how to start a row and build from that, but he’s not used to the movement and he has to start and restart and restart before he can manage anything that looks like anything other than a child’s craft project.

He gets it eventually, though, and when he does it becomes second nature to drop into the cozy, unstylish armchair that he miracled into his apartment after Aziraphale complained about how hard his modern furniture was, and _really, dear, I’m the only one who visits, I don’t know why you’re so committed to these hellish things._ He gets his yarn, gets his needles, puts on some trashy television program that he wishes he could take credit for, and lets his mind wander while his hands get to work.

His thoughts wander to Aziraphale more often than he’s comfortable admitting – which is to say, he thinks of him every time.

Aziraphale doesn’t know about it – Crowley never tells him and hides the basket he keeps his supplies in each time Aziraphale comes over. He isn’t really sure why he never tells him – maybe he’s worried Aziraphale will tease him. Maybe he’s worried Aziraphale will judge it. Maybe he’s worried that Aziraphale will look at the soft yarn and needles and realize how often Crowley thinks of him and run again.

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

In short, Crowley knits for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale doesn’t know.

**

He keeps making scarves. Some in the blue cashmere, some in a light purple alpaca. All frustratingly imbued with feelings – _made with love,_ the woman at the shop had said, the look on her face too knowing by a half.

And one night, deep into January, Aziraphale is slumped in the armchair, drunk on a vintage and giggling at the television and Crowley snaps.

“I got you something,” his mouth says while his brain is shut off, and Aziraphale blinks in surprise before his face stretches into a too-pleased smile.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, and stands up on wobbly legs. He could sober up, but he decides he’d rather not. “Just – gimme a sec, stay there.”

He stumbles down the hall into the bedroom, opens the closet, fumbles for the pile of scarves and pulls out his favorite – the first even one he’d done, with the pale blue cashmere.

He returns to Aziraphale, who’s put his wine glass down and is looking back at Crowley. Crowley tosses the scarf at him and returns to his seat, trying his best to avoid the look on Aziraphale’s face.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, “this is _beautiful._ ” He rubs it between his fingers, then against his face. “Oh, it’s so soft, too – where did you get it?”

“Ah, uh, y’know, store. Market. Somewhere.” Crowley flaps a hand at him. “Anyways, s’yours, uh. Cold n’all that.”

He sees the smile on Aziraphale’s face and wonders how many times someone can Fall.

**

The problem is.

Aziraphale wears the scarf all the time.

At the park. In the shop. At the Ritz.

It’s more than just wearing it, too – he sticks his nose in the fabric, fiddles with the ends. He keeps _smiling_ at Crowley, which, to be fair, isn’t _new,_ but Crowley is by no means used to it.

_Or I’ll never talk to you again._

Crowley watches Aziraphale loop the cashmere around his neck before they leave the shop and thanks Someone that it didn’t come to that.

**

Crowley would never admit it, but he loves the bookshop. Loves sinking back into the worn old couch, loves watching Aziraphale at home and content and surrounded by hundreds, thousands of his beloved old books.

They aren’t drinking tonight, just – being. Existing in each other’s company without the pretext of coming in for a good wine or an old bourbon. They don’t really need the excuse anymore.

Crowley’s laying back on the couch, which is wonderfully the perfect length to stretch out on and dangle his feet off the side, head tipped back onto the armrest when he hears Aziraphale clear his throat.

Crowley waits, then looks over when Aziraphale doesn’t speak. “Something wrong?”

“Oh, no. There’s just, ah. Something I wanted to talk about. Nothing bad!” He stammers. “But important.”

Crowley makes the effort – to sit up, that is. “What is it?”

Aziraphale takes a moment, puts a hand on his desk. He’d folded up the scarf and placed it there after they returned from dinner at the Italian place down the street. Now, he runs his palm over it.

“The scarf,” he starts. “You said you bought it?”

“Yes,” Crowley lies. “Sorry, don’t remember where, if you’re looking for another one.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “No, I think I’m quite happy with this.”

“So what about it, then?”

Aziraphale bites his lip, before seemingly deciding something, steeling his resolve like Crowley’s seen him do in far more dangerous situations than this. “You know I can feel love, right, dear?”

Crowley’s heart stops. Or, more accurately, it goes back to normal – demon hearts not being necessary, and all that. “Vaguely.”

“There’s an awful lot of it in this,” Aziraphale continues. He takes a breath. “Crowley, did you really buy this?”

“I told you—”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

And oh, that stabs Crowley, but the look on Aziraphale’s face, the soft downturn of his lips – that’s what breaks him.

“No.”

“You made it.”

“Yes.”

Silence falls over them both like a thick fog. Crowley worries about drowning in it.

Then Aziraphale smiles, like the sun appearing from behind a cloud, like a choir bursting into song, like – well.

Like Aziraphale smiling, really.

“That’s really how you feel?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley starts to shrug, remembers Aziraphale’s plea, then nods instead. No point in trying to hide things now, he supposes. Best to get it over with.

But Aziraphale doesn’t offer platitudes, or apologies, or pity. He just keeps smiling.

“Is that – okay?” Crowley hazards.

“It’s more than okay,” Aziraphale laughs. “You know, I could tell from the start. And some of the rows are crooked.”

Crowley tenses up. “You don’t have to make fun of me, you know. A simple no would suffice.”

Aziraphale’s face clears. “Oh, no, I’m not—” He stammers, then stops to collect himself. “I’m sorry, I’m going about this all wrong.”

He stands up and crosses to the halfway point between his desk and Crowley’s couch, but not before picking up the scarf. He offers his free hand to Crowley.

“Come here?”

Crowley hesitates before rising. He hopes he isn’t going to get smited – smote? Smit? Not smitten, he knows he’s already smitten – and approaches, cautious.

Aziraphale wastes no time in stepping in to close the gap and loop the soft fabric over Crowley’s shoulders, around his neck and draped loosely over his chest. Crowley can’t help but feel a little offended. “You know, if you didn’t like it and wanted to give it back, you could have just said. It’s hard learning to knit, you know.”

“Hush, dear.” Aziraphale’s hands trail down over Crowley’s chest, finally winding the ends around his hands. “You talk too much.”

Crowley scoffs. “As if you don’t.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, fond as anything, then tugs the ends of Crowley’s scarf until he’s forced to bend down and oh, _oh._

So _that’s_ what kissing someone feels like.

It’s probably a good thing they didn’t do this sooner, Crowley thinks. There’s no way he’d be able to focus on the Apocalypse if he knew he could be doing this instead, biting at Aziraphale’s lower lip and melting at the knees when Aziraphale flicks his tongue into Crowley’s mouth.

They part eventually, though they don’t stray far; Crowley rubs his nose along Aziraphale’s and delights in the little satisfied hum it gets in return. It reminds him of the noises Aziraphale makes when he’s digging into a particularly good dessert that he’d always been jealous of.

“I take it you still like the scarf, then?”

Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley revels in the front-row seat he currently has to the show that is the crinkling of the skin next to Aziraphale’s eyes and the impossible brightness in the rings of grey and blue. Does Aziraphale have flecks of gold in his eyes? Crowley isn’t sure. They’re beautiful nonetheless.

“I love it,” Aziraphale murmurs.

For once, Crowley knows what he means.

**Author's Note:**

> whats it say abt me that i've written two scenes now involving love confessions while crowley lays on a couch in the bookshop?


End file.
